


White Lies

by cortchuzska



Series: The Last Lion [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Kingsguards, their vows.</p><p>
  <em>He wondered what Ser Arthur Dayne would have to say of this lot. "How is it that the Kingsguard has fallen so low, " most like. "It was my doing, " I would have to answer. "I opened the door, and did nothing when the vermin began to crawl inside. "</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Serve, obey and protect the King...

 

### Jaime

He has seen his father sitting the Iron Throne far more often than Aerys himself; the realm is firmly in Lord Tywin's hands, the King but a figurehead, and mad at that, it's whispered beyond closed doors. It's known, the Tagaryens have their quirks.

Once Jaime wondered why all Lannisport would trust a half-crazed hag, and believed she could work magic and see their future.

“Madness, prophecy and magic often go hand in hand. ” The maester answered him. “At the Citadel it was argued they were a form of madness themselves.”

In Targaryen blood, they course equally strong; yet the King's madness, his cruel streak matter little and less. Under his father's Handship the Seven Kingdoms faced Winter amply provisioned, and now Spring is budding: it was Aerys who named him first, and keeps recalling him back soon after slighting him; Prince Rhaegar is all can be hoped of a future king, and he is Aerys's son; and Aerys's Seven are already stuff of legend.

However mad, looking at the bigger picture, his reign may still be counted as a glorious age for Westeros.

The King himself won't last long: more and more unkempt, ghastly pale and thin; it is rumoured he is starving himself to death, as Baelor did, for fear his food is poisoned; and Baelor himself was a bit off, but a great king all the same, greater than Daeron, his father said. Lord Tywin was not happy with his son's childish infatuation with the Young Dragon, who accomplished the conquest of Dorne, a feat many attempted to no avail, even dragonriders like Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, and brought it into the Seven Kingdoms.

“Baelor did, for all his many faults. Daeron _wrote_ the Conquest of Dorne yet never kept it. A most captivating book, I do concur,” Lord Tywin conceded “Yet not less of a tale.”

“It's no tale.” Jaime doggedly replied. “He won every battle he fought and never lost one.”

“Aye, the Boy King never lost but Dorne, along with the best part of his army.”

“Only because the Dornish have shit for honour and the treacherous Lords rebelled against the Iron Throne and murdered him!” Jaime was brimming with righteousness.

“A nice way to put it: rebellion, murder, treachery. A cover up for the Young Dragon's own failures: what befell him should teach you that battles alone don't win wars. Earning alliances is no less important, Jaime: even a King should pay his debts, but Lord Yronwood, who let Daeron's army through the Stone Way, hardly got a thank you for his trouble; besides, even the Bloodroyal would have had a Martell ruling Dorne rather than a Tyrell, and iron-fisted at that.”

“It wasn't Daeron's fault, but that Lord Tyrell's attitude! If he had been less ruthless...” Jaime protested weakly.

“Ruthlessness has nothing to do with it, Jaime; and anyway it was Daeron who appointed Tyrell.” His father cut him short. “I doubt Yronwood would have been any softer, but just naming him would have turned against each other the Dornish, always a divided, quarrelsome lot still fancying themselves heirs to long forgotten petty kings. After bleeding Dorne for a while, thus posing little to no threat, possibly they could have come to see in the Targaryens their only chance for a well-order rule. Instead, Daeron the Fool's greatest accomplishment was uniting the Dornish _against_ the Iron Throne: for the one thing a Dornishman hates more than his next door neighbour is the Reach.”

“It was treacherous of Lord Yronwood to betray his liege.” Jaime put forth. “Daeron was right in turning him down: who could trust a turncloak or be loyal to him? Only men as wicked and treacherous.”

“That Yronwood was.” Lord Tywin nodded. “As well as the Dornish, who elected to betray Daeron instead. His own prowess undid him: he put too much stock in it to even contemplate the chance of alliances. As a Lord, you must know when to wipe out your enemies, and when they can turn into useful allies.”

Jaime shall never be a Lord now, to his father bitter regret, but he trusts Lord Tywin will once again consider the bigger picture, and set aside the slight suffered.

As long as his father serves as Aerys's Hand and protects the Seven Kingdoms, all will be good.

 

### Sandor

Fuck the Seven Kingdoms, fuck the King, fuck the Kingsguard: why do Meryn and Boros look down to him as he were a wet shit not even able to keep Joffrey from scratching himself on the Iron Throne: because he lacks a Ser before his name?

He has been babysitting the boy long enough to know how it's done, and for all their puffing up they are on the Lannisters' leash as he is; not to mention, he could hack both the lick-arses down while taking a piss, if needs be.

They will suck up on the brat, who is already petty and spoiled as it is, but if it comes down to blows, all the hard work will fall on him, no doubt, lest they dent that fine armour of theirs or crease their snowy cloak, white as their liver.

And it will: in which tangle Eddard Stark embroiled himself he cares not, but lions and wolves will be soon at each other's throat, that's plain enough to him. A long and ugly affair in all likeliness; the Seven Kingdoms bow to the Lannisters' might, yet he also saw the North, and took the measure of his men. No frills, not even knights there; the Northmen are a tough lot.

He grins; pride against pack. There is no sweeter thing than killing.


	2. ... Renounce any claim to riches, lands and titles...

###  Sandor

And what a handsome prize his inheritance is, for he is still the lawful heir – his brother's wives never seem to last long enough to squeeze whelp out of their cunt. The Others can take his birthright, as far as he is concerned, and choke on it since they are at it: he walked out at twelve and bugger him if he ever set foot again in Clegane Keep.

Let alone _claim,_ piss on all your titles and your Sers. As if a white wool scrap could change his mind about fancy names which for all their ring can't add half an inch to a man, nor make his blade any sharper. 

A boy might believe a crown on his head makes him a King, but if the North shall call its banners, it's Joffrey's grandfather's army that shall keep his arse on the Throne, his crown on his head and his head on his neck. With more titles than most, Tywin Lannister yet made himself a name for knowing full well hard steel and harder men rule the world.

### Jaime

How glorious Cersei was, when she peeled off her roughspun clothes; how golden, enough to light up the dingy room in Eel Alley; how dazzling.

Her eyes are stars, her skin translucent as the moon, her hair shine has robbed the sun of his radiance. The sky swirls at her hips swing, when she walks him to the bed; when she pushes him down and takes him in, her rocking pace brings forth new worlds and commands their obliteration.

It's not a Lordship he wants.

Being with her is soaring in a bottomless fall.

It's not Casterly Rock gold he needs.

What's a faraway rock in the Sunset Sea compared to her?


	3. ... Father no children, take no woman to wife...

### Jaime

Like, Lysa Tully? Jaime has to remind himself giggling like a little girl while pronouncing his vows is not anything a Kingsguard does.

He remembers her as vaguely pretty, certainly not ugly enough to strike him: as far as girls went he didn't notice any flaw worth remarking in her – or anything remarkable at all; and if he bothered checking, it's only because she was niece to the Blackfish, and he wanted to know _everything_ about him.

Truth be told, she looked no more interested in him than he was in her; if they had married, they would bore each other to death.

Holster Tully will find Lysa someone better suited; he wishes her good of her husband, who is welcome to spawn schools of little trouts on her.

As long as that husband is not him: for not being Cersei is every woman's irredeemable fault.

 

### Sandor

Which muttonhead of a woman would take him, pray tell? His coin, that women take; and even finagle to charge him double, he does not trouble himself if for his size or his half face.

Why should he bother with brats of his own, when he is still playing wet nurse to a King – and the most nagging itch, Joffrey is in some twisted way _fond_ of him, and even before Jaime Lannister left and Robert knew defeat at a boar tusk, at times he looked up to him as if looking for a father.

Why should he care for a wife, to have a harridan bitching to his face about his every cup, and cuckolding him behind his back? Tavern wenches refill his tankard as he swigs it, and if not much, Sandor gets of them what he bargained for; he knows all too well what his marriage to Cersei Lannister, her beauty, name and gold got King Robert.

For the Hound might be many things but not a fool, and wondered why he, not even a knight, was to watch over the Crown Prince instead of a Kingsguard, soon to gather his answer. He was an underdog who owed everything to the Lannisters, and since some sense matched his longsword, he was not likely to tattle about; if he would let slip something unseemly while in his cups, he would do so in a nameless winesink, safely away from highborn ears if the gods were good; if they weren't, no one would wonder or kick up a fuss about his untimely death in a gutter; his brother least of all.

With the family he was born into, it does not bear thinking about starting another.


	4. ... Abstain from the company of women...

### Sandor

Do they call it company now? It's not  _company_ he seeks, but he guesses his spare visits to the Street of Silk are over; with his bulk and his face, he cannot pay call there on the sly wrapped in a cloak of another colour, as Boros Blount customarily does, and hope to go unnoticed. 

As long as wine is allowed he won't mind overmuch; he can do without women whose eyes follows him without ever meeting his, whose bawdy cheerfulness rings fake as the polite tattle of well-mannered ladies. It's not company he can get of them.

The one truly happy to see him, who demands very little, is his horse: he nickers, and tilts his heads for the usual apple, or some other treat, and Sandor would lean forward and rub him between the ears. Once he drank his every last penny, and forgot about it; since he has taken care to buy an oatcake before drinking himself into oblivion. Stranger didn't seem to mind, and nudged him playfully as ever, but Sandor couldn't hold his horse steady gaze, and he would never again let down the one companion he has.

### Jaime

She doesn't fit in the category, and he could never refer to her as his fellow squires spoke of _women_ and their company; the way he learned to speak of them as well, even if he never rang much convincing: he never shared their curiosity on the matter, and was taunted for it. Here at least his brethren are sworn to chastity and will not look down to him.

Eunuch, Merret Frey called him, after a washerwoman he had been jesting with offered to mend his clothes for a kiss, but Jaime suddenly remembered his lessons with Septa Saranelle: not many, yet he had been a diligent pupil as a little girl, so he sent her off and did it himself.

“Eunuch, are you so afraid of the company of women, to hightail it from a kiss with a willing wench?”

He was no stranger to girly kisses. When dressed up as Cersei once he had played at kissing with Melara, who had asked him to pretend to be Jaime. It was awkward and confusing, playing at being him while acting his twin, and when he told her she got mad at him for no reason at all: mock kisses with some girl were nothing like kissing Cersei for true.

Unsullied, they claimed again, when he had shown he knew no fear of them, and could hold his own and against everyone on the practice yard, and trashed whoever he was set against, afoot or on horseback, with sword, lance, with every weapon the master at arm would give them, once, and twice, and any time.

“Unsullied, can you even tell the difference between a cock and a cunt? If you are so afraid of their company, women's bodies will forever be a mystery to you.” Merret jeered after a lame attempt to goad Jaime into joining him fell flat; the weasel lacked the guts to go to a camp-follower alone.

To Jaime, her twin's body is no more of a mystery than his own, but rather the playground for joint explorations, and every reunion brings welcome surprises.

“You filled up nicely.” One of them remarks, as the other throws back. “Same as you.”

“Do you like it?” The question is teasing, yet a bit anxious; the answer as cocky as comforting. ” Same as you.”

Jaime remembers the sentences exchanged, not which one of them said them; it could have been either, for they might have grown muscles or curves, but always feel the same to each other.

“Boy-whore, mind your ass while sucking up to Arthur Dayne. The Dornish are known to bed with women and boys alike, and you're prettier than most girls.”

Young Lion, he heard for the first time when the other squires' cheered his newly earned spurs. Young Lion, so addressed him even Merret Frey, who still could not sit from the White Fawn's brand, nor piss straight because of another woman.

“It's _Ser_ Eunuch for you, Frey.” Jaime turned on him a cutting smile. “Does it hurt yet? You should better mind your own ass when sucking up to pretty outlaw wenches.”

His once fellow squires' snickers tasted almost as sweet as the thought of Cersei welcoming him back; of her kissing the small scar Dawn left on his shoulder; of her lips parting with pleasure, of her glowing voice panting Young Lion and colouring it in all the hues of passion.

The word _abstain_ tallies with women, doesn't tally with her. With her, it's just names strung in a meaningless blubbering: she is the best part of himself, and parting with her makes no sense at all.

It's Cersei, no less than his sword hand, that made a Kingsguard of him; it's Cersei who made true of a desire so deep he didn't know about until it was splayed before him; it's Cersei who has made of him what he was always meant to be; it's Cersei who makes him who he truly is.


	5. So do I pledge, on my honour as a Knight, for the greater Glory to the Kingsguard!

### Jaime

So Jaime pledges himself, meaning every word of it, and with him all of Aerys's Seven renew their vows: Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull; Ser Oswell Whent; Ser Barristan the Bold; Lewyn Martell, a Prince of Dorne; Ser Jonothor Darry; and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

The crowd cheers, the sun shines on Harrenhal monstrous towers, and Spring is ahead.

### Sandor

Knights. Go figure if they could go about the mummer's farce without prattling about honour and glory.

They did not even bother changing the words for him: he is no knight, and his honour can just as well go fuck himself.

As to glory, which kind of glory can the big sacks of wind that are now his brothers aspire to?

Sandor swears all the same: fittingly enough a Kingsguard who is no Knight has a Kingslayer as his Lord Commander.


End file.
